Listen, O Ravana, to what befell me after that fateful battle. At that time, I was somehow released by him on the field, and what followed is a tale you must hear. Tireless, I was soon beset by two other demons, and together, taking the guise of deer, we entered the wilds of the Dandaka forest. There, in that haunted wood, I roamed as a monstrous beast—my tongue blazing, fangs great and terrible, horns sharp as spears, my strength immense. I wandered through Dandaka, flesh-eater that I was, preying on all I found. At sacrificial altars, in holy places, and beneath sacred trees, O Ravana, I stalked—ferocious, harassing the ascetics who dwelt there in peace. I slew the righteous sages of Dandaka and drank their blood, devouring their flesh without mercy. Cruelty consumed me; I terrified all who lived in the forest, intoxicated by blood and the taste of sage-flesh. Thus I wandered, a corrupter of righteousness, until one day I came upon Rama—the ascetic devoted to dharma, radiant with virtue. I saw Vaidehi, the noble Sita, and Lakshmana, the great charioteer, a self-restrained ascetic, ever devoted to the welfare of all beings. Seeing Rama, dwelling in the forest, I dismissed him as merely an ascetic, not recognizing his true strength. Yet, remembering my old enmity, I approached him nonetheless. Burning with anger, I charged at him in my deer form, horns sharpened, intent on killing him and avenging my previous defeat. But Rama, drawing his great bow, released three sharp arrows—foeslaying missiles that sped forth like Garuda, swift as the wind. The arrows, thunderbolt-like, terrifying and eager for blood, advanced together, their joints bent, upon me. Knowing Rama’s valor, and recalling the danger I had once faced, I turned to deceit and managed to escape. But the two Rakshasas who were with me were slain by those arrows. Freed by Rama’s hand, my life barely preserved, I have since wandered, settling at last as an ascetic, my mind composed. Yet, O Ravana, wherever I turn, on every tree I see Rama—clad in bark and black deer skin, bow in hand, like Death himself with a noose ready. Even thousands of Ramas I see, and the whole forest appears to me as if it has become Rama. Alone or among others, I see only Rama, O lord of Rakshasas. Having seen him even in dreams, I wander bewildered, my senses lost. The very sound of names beginning with ‘Ra’, the sight of gems or chariots—everything fills me with terror, for I am haunted by Rama. I know his power, and I tell you: battle with him is not for you. The descendant of Raghu could slay even Bali or Namuci. If you wish to fight Rama, do so; or, show patience. But if you wish to see me alive, speak no more of Rama. Many virtuous people have perished in this world, along with their possessions, because of the offenses of others. So too, by another’s wrongdoing, I may perish, O night-wanderer. Do as you think best; I will not follow you. Rama possesses great splendor, courage, and strength. He could destroy the world of Rakshasas itself. If Khara, because of Shurpanakha, went to Janasthana, acted with excessive violence, and was slain by Rama—whose deeds are effortless—then tell me, O Ravana, what fault can there be in Rama? If you do not accept these words, which I speak for your welfare and that of your kin, then know this: you and your relatives will lose your lives in battle, slain this very day by Rama’s straight-flying arrows. Thus concludes my tale. Hearing Maricha’s words—wise and well-meant though they were—Ravana paid them no heed, as one who courts death rejects medicine. Driven by fate, the lord of Rakshasas answered Maricha with harsh and unfitting words, despite the wholesome counsel he had received. “Maricha,” he said, “your speech is unworthy and meaningless, coming from one of ignoble lineage. It is utterly fruitless, like a seed sown in barren ground. Your words cannot shake my resolve to fight Rama, especially since he is but a foolish, sinful human. He who abandoned friends, kingdom, mother, and father, and went alone to the forest at the mere words of a woman—such a one I do not fear. I must seize Sita, dearer to Rama than his own life, right before your eyes, even as I did to the slayer of Khara. This is my firm resolve, Maricha, unshakable even by gods or demons together with Indra. When asked about the faults or merits of a course, you should answer thus—whether there is danger or opportunity—regarding the decision at hand. A wise minister, when questioned, should speak respectfully to the king if he desires his own prosperity. Words that are gentle, auspicious, and beneficial—never opposed—should be spoken to the ruler with proper decorum. If words are spoken that are harsh or even beneficial, but lack respect, the king who values his honor should not welcome them. Kings of immeasurable energy bear five forms: those of Agni, Indra, Soma, Yama, and Varuna. Great kings, O night-wanderer, possess heat, valor, gentleness, punishment, and graciousness, just like those deities. Therefore, at all times, they must be honored and revered. But you, ignorant of your duty, are simply seized by delusion.” Thus, the exchange between Maricha and Ravana unfolded, each word shaping the fate that was yet to come.